The cold-forged hard dark metal plate gave way first.
It didn’t bend. It didn’t buckle under crushing mass. Against the high-pitched shearing hum of the wind-blade, the three-eighths-inch steel plate parted with a sound like tearing parchment. A spray of brilliant orange friction sparks burst across Pei Jing’s chest, burning tiny pinprick holes in the rough linen of his tunic and scorching the dark timber of the pillar behind him. The two halves of the wrist guard flew outward. Their cut edges glowed cherry-red from instant clockwork friction before clattering against the slate tiles.
Next went the boiled bull-hide. The two layers of hardened rawhide, seasoned in coarse salt water and walnut oil to deflect battlefield crossbolts, offered less than five split seconds of load-bearing pushback before turning into blackened ribbons.
Then the wind-blade met human meat.
The hardened outer skin of Skin Tempering—a living armor cultivated through five years of striking gravel bags, enduring iron sand frictions, and soaking in bitter-salt astringent baths—clamped down against the green crescent. The skin didn’t split easily. It resisted like cured rhinoceros hide, stretching under the intense dynamic pressure before the blade finally sliced through the thickened outer skin layer.
The crescent sank into the forearm musculature.
